Another woman
by aliciaemilyluca
Summary: Familiar faces and the most intriguing murder that Sherlock has ever come across. Little does he know that the closer he gets to solving this puzzle, the closer everyone around him gets to destruction. With the supposed death of Irene Adler, the two boys get drawn into a case which they may never get to finish. Set after series 2. Eventual Johnlock.
1. A dead woman

**Hello all, this is my first published fic, at least part of it anyway. I do hope any and all who real like it and if you could leave reviews that would be much appreciated. There will eventually be Johnlock, just you wait ;)**

"Beautiful…just beautiful."  
"Sorry, what? Beautiful?"  
"Yes John, beautiful. Brilliant. Marvellous. Don't you see?" Sherlock was bent almost adoringly over the recently deceased woman, who looked somewhat familiar. How could a half-naked corpse sprawled out in a car park with no signs of injury ever be beautiful? Depends what you like I suppose.  
"Oh I always see but never observe, remember?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at his companion and hauled himself off the ground and turned swiftly to face Lestrade.  
"Anything?"  
"Of course, why else would I be here?" The heavy sighs resonated off the concrete walls, "What? What did I say this time?"  
"Sherlock, it's what you didn't say you utter bell-"  
"From what we can see there is no visible physical trauma that could've resulted in her death, but there is slight bruising around her wrists, meaning that she was obviously forced. However by the look of them they occurred after her death, so she was killed, then moved to a random location where friends and relatives wouldn't go to look for her…including her lover. She was on the way to visit her lover."  
"And how did you get that?" Lestrade scoffed and folded his arms across his chest, growing tired of Sherlock's showing-off.  
"Very rarely will you find a female wearing lace underwear, matching, without them going to visit someone with a promise of…certain relations. We can eliminate the possibility of her cheating on her boyfriend due to the fact that she has an engagement ring, and an expensive one at that. Engaged for a while, given by how long the indent on her ring finger stays present when the ring is removed. Usually jewellery worn for that long would tarnish but she has obviously given it a lot of care and attention given by how polished it is and the residue left on her fingers. So, she was on the way to her fiancé, but was assaulted and killed. Oh but she was a fighter this one. Her nails, manicured at least once a fortnight, however a few nails have been damaged and even ripped off. She was fighting back, holding on to something, and the bloody residue and…oak? Underneath her nails suggest she was scratching at her attacker, and holding onto something wooden that was being taken from her. These are the only signs of an assault that are outwardly visible, so the only way she could've been damaged is internal. She was drugged. She had something valuable, personal. Probably something to do with her fiancé. To find our killer we need to find her fiancé."  
"Amazing…" John muttered. No matter how many times John accompanied Sherlock on these cases, his improbable intelligence never ceased to amaze and bewilder him.  
"Uh, yes John, thank you for your input," Sherlock nodded and smiled briefly at him before turning again to face Lestrade, "you know where to find me." The formidable detective strutted away from the scene, painted with a fairly smug expression that was hidden from everyone else, leaving his flatmate to try and catch up with his long, confident strides.

The atmosphere at Baker Street was, in a word, gauche. John had reclined to his armchair and Sherlock to his. The silence was almost too tangible to bear, despite there almost always being some sort of comfortable silence, on this occasion it seemed to be unwarranted. John had a few questions concerning the dead woman, and Sherlock was aware of this. However he refused to speak, both of them. There was something different about this case, it appeared to be somehow. There wasn't a question of whether or not Sherlock could solve it, everyone knows that he is more than capable. _So what was it?_ The painful silence was soon broken by Sherlock plucking a soft melody on his violin. John sighed and decided that this would be a good moment to begin a new blog entry, seeing as the sound of him typing wouldn't disturb either of them any more than the persistent string-picking.

 _A Lonely Fiancée_

 _For a few days everything at Baker Street has been quiet, everything of course but Sherlock. For days no cases above a level "6" had come a cropper so I've had to endure hours upon hours on intelligible mumbling and pacing back and forth. Thankfully all of this changed when our favourite Detective Inspector-_

"Lestrade"  
"Sorry?" John looked up to see his flatmate standing by the window, his brow was furrowed; something was up.  
"Lestrade. He's found something. Or not, judging by his facial expression." He sits back down on his chair and waits for the detective ( _if you could call him that)_ inspector's heavy footsteps on the stairs after Mrs Hudson lets him in. John looks over and smiles at him as he enters the room, and stands up to greet him.  
"Greg, how can we help?" They shake hands, and Lestrade remains standing, presumably to wait for Sherlock's attention.  
"Who's Greg?"  
"His name is Greg, Sherlock how many times?" The consulting detective looks up at the two men, confused. A second later he waves by his ear as if throwing away the name like everything else he deems useless. He rises to his feet, brushes himself off and walks over to join them, looking down on them all the while. _Does he have to always do that…_ John ponders, as he does often.  
"So, what is it?"  
"Her fiancé,"  
"Oh, you've found him?" He raises his eyebrows in surprise, an expression rarely seen in Sherlock.  
"No, there isn't one. You were wrong."


	2. Dinner?

John bit his lip anxiously and glanced over at Lestrade as if to say _now you've done it._  
"Wrong? I couldn't have been wrong, I'm never wrong, there _is_ a fiancé, there's no ulterior explanation."  
"Didn't you say that about the case of the missing marbles?" John interjected.  
"Oh do shut up, John," the doctor sighed and wandered into the kitchen to get himself a coffee, "Well whoever the fiancé is, he doesn't want to be found. We can only expect that he was in on the whole thing." The consultant detective slumped in his chair like a sulking child and placed his long fingers into a temple to rest his chin on. _The woman, she was obviously engaged, she wouldn't see a "lover" whilst wearing an engagement ring. Unless it was a ploy to fool someone? Her family? No, her records show no family so what, what?! Friends? No, they would know the truth. Someone so foolish to carry something valuable around at night wouldn't be able to fool friends into thinking they were engaged._ "There is a real engagement."  
"Sherlock, there's no one, you heard what Lestrade said." He placed a mug of coffee beside Sherlock, who merely nodded in response. It was only once John had set himself down in his armchair did the detective decide to speak again,  
"Her clothing wasn't spectacularly expensive so how on earth would she be able to afford an engagement ring of that price? Of course, she has a suitor, a wealthy one at that and he obviously lives local to Westminster. She couldn't have walked any more than that and wouldn't have been able to afford a taxi out of Westminster. He is wealthy and living within Westminster. That's all so far. And you can close your mouth John, I know." The doctor jumped, then realised what he was talking about. He crossed his arms across himself and looked down at the floor, as if there were something even more interesting in the patterns of the sun-bleached carpet.

The silence couldn't come soon enough. After Lestrade had left the flat to begin the search for a missing fiancé, Sherlock had finally come to the decision to stop showing off. Regardless of John's admiration of his colleague, his constant navel-gazing did have the tendency to piss him off. This case did appear to be different, so different in fact that even Sherlock was stumped. His arm was adorned with four nicotine patches and could be seen from his shirt rolled lazily over his elbows. The mindless plucking soon turned into a soft melody, weaving a silky tune from four strings alone. It was a new composition to touch John's ear, soft, yet macabre. Watson closed his laptop and rested on his thighs, he looked over at Sherlock with friendly eyes. _How could someone so cold create something so warming?_  
"John I need your help," the low murmur could just about be heard from the corner of the room. He raised his head slowly, and looked at his friend in the eyes. _Those eyes_ John speculated, _those stupid, beautiful eyes._ "John?" He shook himself out of his trance and looked up at Sherlock and smiled-  
"Help with what?" He rose out of his chair as soon as he saw Sherlock doing the same. The detective walked over to the door and grabbed his infamous coat.  
"I'm bored, dinner?"  
"Dinner?"  
"Better than shooting at walls, don't you think?" Sherlock winked at John before he briskly slung his coat over himself, ensuring his collar was up of course, before heading out. John thought to quickly grab his keys and wallet before he followed suit, as Sherlock did have the annoying tendency to "forget" to pay the cabbie every time the two went out.

They arrived at the Marylebone soon after they had left Baker St and John had to admit, he was impressed. For a locally owned pub, it was massive. The two stepped into the restaurant and Sherlock left his companion at the door to go and utter a few words to the hostess. John didn't notice of course as he was too taken with the magnificence of the place. It was open, with dark wood furnishings and crystal chandeliers that shone with brilliance, which somehow complimented the open floor where the main dining area was placed. John's mind was flooded with visions of beauty and the smells of rich foods and fine wines. He was in awe, little did he know that Sherlock was in fact looking over at John, laughing under his breath at the spectacular sight of a small retired army doctor gawping at all that there was to see. Humorously, John's mouth snapped shut as his wandering gaze fell upon Sherlock.  
"What're you laughing at?" Sherlock raised his hands defensively and laughed more.  
"Nothing, nothing at all." The hostess approached him and ushers them both to follow. The hostess led them to a quiet table further away from the main rabble of the evening. The lighting was warm, shielded slightly from the brightness of the chandelier by an overhanging balcony. It was a perfect and cosy little pocket for the two to eat their meal in peace. All of a sudden, John Watson felt very out of place. He looked around him: waiters and waitresses in white shirts and black bowties, diners wearing suits and lavish dresses in all sorts of expensive materials. He turned to Sherlock, even he looked sharper than a scalpel. John couldn't help but squirm uncomfortably in his two-day-old trousers and one of his old jumpers with reindeers on it, and it wasn't even Christmas.  
"You could've warned me"  
"Of what?"  
"That we were coming _here_. To some fancy black tie restaurant." His voice began to raise in exasperation to a point where guests who were closer to them turned around in scorn. Sherlock shrugged and sat down and signalled John to do the same. Begrudgingly, he did as he was told and lowered himself down into a surprisingly comfortable chair as a spritely waitress approached the table.  
"So how are we this evening gentlemen?" Her voice was remarkably soft, yet to Sherlock's surprise it did not seem to peak John's interest.  
"Brilliant thanks, could we get some menus please?" John's tone was somewhat standoffish, which provoked the waitress to continue-  
"Oh don't worry sir, we may not be Soho however we are very open and welcome to couples of your-"  
"We aren't a couple." John looked up at her with a stone cold expression that seemed to frighten off the young woman.  
"Why are we here Sherlock? I'm fed up of people always assuming that," he lowered his voice and leant in towards the younger man, "that we're a couple."  
"Oh is it really that bad? It's never bothered me." Sherlock unfolded his menu and let his eyes dart across the page like a ping-pong ball. "Besides, why do you think we're here?"  
"You said you were bored."  
"Yes but how can I possibly be bored when a 4-patch case arises? We have so little to go on John. Are you aware of how cheetahs hunt?" The older of the two shakes their head without lifting an eye of his menu, "they camouflage, infiltrate. They put themselves exactly where their prey is going to be."  
"So that's what we're doing is it? Hunting?"  
"Of course John. This restaurant isn't any old restaurant. It's known for its prestige and popularity among the inhabitants of Westminster. Not to mention our entertainment for this evening is a relatively famous Jazz band, Toms and Mongrels."  
"…right, and what significance does this have to the case?"  
"The dead woman's phone had a recently added playlist, the only songs on there were from this band, what do we deduce from this John?"  
"Look, I'm just hun-" Sherlock cut him off for the hundredth time today,  
"We figure out that due to the complete contrast of music genre of frequently played to recently added, she has only recently been interested in this music, due to the interest of a loved one. Her fiancé. Now, seeing that her fiancé is in good money, in Westminster and is a fan of their band, he will be here tonight, now who is he."  
Finally, John raises his eyes to meet Sherlock's. He gives a knowing smile over to John who just laughs and utters "show off," under his breath.

The evening carries on as it would've done normally. Drinks were ordered, heart attacks were almost had by Watson after he looked at the prices for the wine and Sherlock kept his eyes wandering and weaving between the diners, attempting to reduce them down into smaller parts that he could himself piece together. The entrées were going down smoothly up until Sherlock suddenly chokes on his salad and shifts himself towards the wall away from the door.  
"Sherlock mate what's going…"  
"On, dear brother mine." A snide yet all too familiar voice came from an all too familiar face, which did answer the question he was trying to ask Sherlock. "Fancy seeing you here, out on a date now are we? Tsk, tsk, John I thought better of you, aren't you seeing that other woman? Sarah was it? No it was…"  
"Shut up Mycroft, stop this childishness. Now why are you here? Oh let me guess, you were worried!" Sherlock's voice was dripping in sarcasm. He wiped the corners of his mouth with a clean napkin and squinted up at his brother.  
"Even though I am shocked to see you eating, no it was not my intention to spy on you. In fact I am here for dinner, and to enjoy this evening's entertainment. I had no idea you were a fan of jazz, Shirley."  
"It was John." The man in question attempted to protest but was cut short by a condescending smile from the eldest of the Holmes brothers. Of course they all skipped the pleasantries, instead they exchanged glares full of years of pent up sibling angst before Mycroft swanned off to sit on the other side of the restaurant. John noticed Sherlock had lost his previously calm mood and had become quite agitated. The finger drumming soon became too much to bear, when John near enough exploded:  
"Why do you never tell me what's wrong?" It was almost half of the diners that turned around this time, all with a curious eye.  
"Mycroft. He's on the case too, why. Why does he always have to spoil everything,"  
"Well we were having quite a nice evening before, can't we pretend it didn't happen?"  
"That's a child's response John. He's purposely messing with my head on this one. Always on the four patchers." John had elected to ignore him and continue to sip at his wine.

After the main course, which Sherlock had hardly touched any of, he stood up briskly and left a large sum of money on the table. In a blink he was almost out of the door and John had to run to catch up with him.


End file.
